


This cherry-pie sky, that lemon-shaped tailpipe: A Formula 1 parody

by AdamZwicky



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Dramatic, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 11:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11184069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamZwicky/pseuds/AdamZwicky
Summary: Zedd Battle had already faced countless of obnoxious challenges that morning he and his team sat down for a meeting inside the One Dull Factory. Yet, it was nothing compared to what the approaching racing weekend in Spain had coming for him: like paradoxical mind games and vertical sleeping.Disclaimer: This work was written by a person who may or may have not been a former employee at one specific unmentioned F1 team. Several characters and names in this story can be 'mistaken' of being losely based of the real drivers and some of their colleagues as well as the teams by those with a vivid imagination. The events of this tale never truly happened although some details can appear very convincing.This has nothing to do with you or this website, but certain laws require me to disclose this information.





	1. A decent meeting

The sixth of may, 2012.  
The One Dull Factory  
Milkton Screwnes, England  
  
  
Zedd Battle finally appeared in the doorway to the meeting room he had been directed to by a simple mail from his assistant last night. Everyone else had apparently gotten here before him and were all occupying themselves as he confidently came over, but stealing their attention from their laptops one by one.  
It didn't go unhidden that Zedd was carrying a large, rectangular bag over one of his nude shoulders for some reason. That made some of them share looks in wonder. It also appeared to them that the driver had forgotten to get dressed properly. Except from the usual indigo team cap, a pair of black sweatpants was all he wore. Some female character was eyeing him in mild shock to which he gave a shameless shrug in response. Then his fairy-tale blue eyes swept across the people gathered around the big, oval-shaped table. Christy Corner, their boss, sat at the far end corner as always and on his right side sat Camille, a secretary on the exile from team McLaddie. To Christy's left sat Clark Nebber, the other much older driver from Australia. Zedd raised his hand at Clark, taking note how he held his breath out of unyielding intimidation, probably.

"Morning Zedd," Christy greeted him mildly. "Take your seat please so we can begin."

There was one empty chair left for Zedd, and someone had forgotten to put his name on it. Zedd forgave them for their stupid mistake, not the least interested in doing it verbally though. He began with removing the bag from his body.

 "I got stuck with a flat tire on my way here," he commented and put the bag down on the table before sitting down—of course they were all staring at it. "Making a long story short; it's a keyboard and I play it. See for yourselves."

Suddenly, most of the staff was leaning in his direction, watching a video on his phone of himself playing the instrument . Except from Christy and Clark who weren't seated close enough.

"The Beatles?" A blonde-haired girl guessed doubtfully.

"Hey, If you watch closely, his hands don't keep up with the music which means that Zedd's just pretending to play," sighed one of the engineers. He obviously felt scammed.

Zedd pulled back his phone to look at the video himself. Was it possible? "Weird, I never realized."

"Okay, shall we leave that for now and move on with today's agenda?" Christy interrupted and gave his secretary a small nod.

"Wait!" Zedd cut off and proceeded seriously, "it's obvious we all on my side of this table agree we need to address the elephant in the room."

"Which is...?" Christy sipped calmly from his cup of hot chocolate, eyebrows furrowed at the young driver. A legend was told Zedd set sail from a mystical island as a toddler to conquer the racing world under the german flag one day. Basically a living defintion of the expression 'elephant in the room'.

"Well, I was robbed this morning," Zedd announced, expecting oh's and sympathy from them all. "Thought it was obvious!"

Then it seemed to dawn on almost all of them: An unknown thug had tore his expensive clothes off from his body and taken off with his suitcase too. Was that all though, and no signs of struggle whatsoever? Many of them probably wondered. However, their boss had a slight hunch they were about to head for a tiresome detour if they started looking further into Zedd's morning, which there was little or no time for. But he couldn't simply ignore this, out of question.

"I'm sorry Zedd," Christy said, stirring his chocolate passionately. "What happ—"

"You won't believe who," Zedd frowned and nodded at the dark haired man next to Christy. "Him."

Chris and the others looked surprised at Clark. And Clark, in all fairness, wasn't amused to say the least.

"Come again?" He challenged.

"What are you saying, Zedd?" Christy asked, sounding skeptically confused.

"Well, in my absence this Aussie stole my parking spot! You're all blind for not noticing it." Zedd was abruptly on his feet to unfold the blinds covering a window. "Look, my italian vespa isn't in my spot, but some scandinavian hybrid."  
Because of the hybrid car he had been forced to look elsewhere to park his vespa. And he realized in disappointment that his vespa was impossible to spot from this angle. But he would argue it was parked behind the tall bushes among all the bicycles jammed in there with it, if he had to.

Christy's attention was on Clark and he quietly, hesitantly asked him;" Are you driving scandinavian?"

"Are ye serious? I'm driving a Pouche. It's German."

That was Clark's answer to everything. Zedd turned away from the window, facing him with a light, mocking smile.

"Then why are you wearing mismatching socks, mate?"

Some curious eyes were suddenly peeking under the table, at Clark's feet.

"Let's just put an end to this conversation," Christy decided, watching Zedd seemingly surrender and sit down on his chair. "Whoever parked in your spot Zedd can find themselves lucky it wasn't in mine. Camille, will you?"

"Of course," the secretary replied politely and read the document on her laptop, "five percent of the staff voted against the proposition of having the regular music in the elevators changed to dubstep. Nintyfour voted blank and Mr Nebber voted, 'need reading glasses'."

"Look, I'm extremly confident that never happened," Clark said, wrongly.

"Uhuh, I'm really convinced," Camille's voice was a dry murmur, but she raised it as she continued reading the document, "furthermore we'll discontinue the production of next year's team gear and stop selling sunbrellas during racing weekends altogether due to the huge cost of redesigning our engine map. The economy department informs our budget couldn't be any worse therefor we won't pay for any rental cars, bicycles or glittery gel pens until pigs fly. . . " She glanced over at her boss who gestured her to keep going. "Crappy... Gizmos wants a partnership with us... Tell... Them it's Siemens, not Crappy Gizmos at the... meeting or they will all... say no and try reassure me-"

"Not the parenthesis, Camille," Christy interrupted monotonically.Those who were looking carefully could see Christy felt uncomfortable that Camille had accidently revealed that part about Crappy Gizmos. The way he raised his hand to rub his mouth and stubbly chin, then simply waited to hear complains echoing from each and one of them. That didn't happen however. Zedd who usually always had something to say was too busy scribbling in his notebook to be bothered by these news about Crappy Gizmos. So it was safe for Christy to relax. He picked up his cup of chocolate and drank from it.

"Well, I appreciate Crappy Gizmos for what they are," Clark debated, breaking the silence. "If it hadn't been for them we would still be wondering what to do with our broken home electronics."

"Clark is unaware there are recycling stations for electronics," Zedd mused absently. "I felt sad for him, but I don't think he noticed it." A very cheekish, bold smile grew on Zedd's face: a contradiction to his own words which was directed at Clark, only at Clark.

"Yeah, I know about the recycling stations," objected Clark. "The crap we dump there gets shipped to Africa where it ruins both wildlife and habitants' health. Crappy Gizmos are making sure everything stays in your country, although, the hardware they make is useless."

Christy shook his head in disagreement.

"Is that why your car is slower than mine?" Zedd was smiling. "It seems to me you're talking out of own experience. Should we worry your car's been taken over by Gizmos?"

Clark inhaled slowly.

"So what did you do with the regular parts?" Zedd continued. "And for that matter, whatever happened to my assistant? She's been dodging me for three days and I'm in need of clean clothes."

Another wave of realization, like the one earlier, swept over the room and faded. Yet, no one seemed to have any answer to any of his questions. Christy peeked thoughtfully at him over the egde of his open laptop, his hands tearing apart the noisy wrapping of a candy bar.

Clark released his breath."Are ye done embarrassing yerself?"

Zedd wasn't particularly decided on that matter and needed a misplaced diversion quickly. He picked up his smart phone, not very nervously and began browsing Wikihowl on how to befriend urban kangaroos; or how to bond with antisocial aussies.

"Lighten up, Clark." The voice of Dave Cloutrough chippered from the other side of the table. He was a scottish ex-F1 driver who had refused to leave the team for so long now that his family thought he was dead. Crossing his arms, Clark refused to obey him.

"Have some faith in your team," Dave urged him like a junkie to a suicidal hallucination. "We got this. Everything is under control."

Clark looked skeptically between him and his boss.

"I promise you." Dave offered him his engagement ring across the table, as a guarantee.

Pale and unmoved, Clark dropped his head to the table with no explanation to what he was doing. Everyone silently waited for a dramatic conclusion, like unpopped popcorn inside the fuel tank of a running formula one car. Clearly they all ancticipated Clark to give Dave an answer no matter how he chose to position himself. Even the unsocial species had a voice—Zedd was certain of this.

"Uuurr," uurred Clark. They were all looking at him. He was waking up from an unexpected faint attack he apparently suffered at the sight of Dave's ring. Christy grabbed his hand and helped him to sit up properly, sipping his chocolate simultanously like a multitasking superman.  
"I think we need to get you two champs out to Silverstone for some wet track racing."

 

Meanwhile in the lobby, big flat TV-screens mounted on the walls showed a neverending, persistant commercial reel of One Dull staff gathering for a meeting inside a big, bright room. Happy workers greeting each other with smiles. Next scene: eating cake on a huge, expensive plate and listening attentively at the wellmannered speaker. Following scene: drinking coffee while discussing fun analyzing diagrams on each others' laptops. Ending scene: leaving the room laughing and joking, and Zedd Battle giving the camera both thumbs up.


	2. The unseen dispatcher

Sixteen hours later, in the night, Zedd Battle got a call from a stranger who shared cryptic information in broken English that `one of those fellow drivers´ of his would need his help in a very near future. Maybe tomorrow or this Saturday: It was very hard to predict apparently. During a rather sweaty moment Zedd quickly blurted out names of drivers, living but also dead, while he peeked warily at his hotel door. The stranger gave him a high pitched Santa Claus-like laugh and dismissed so much as all of these names. That left Zedd wondering if he really needed to feel worried, but what if! What if he was in... grave danger if he failed this dangerous quest? He then tried to guess the name of the person he was talking to without any success. The stranger suddenly bombarded in his ear; I missed my cab thanks to your dullness! Good luck helping your friend, jerk!  
BEEEEEEEEEEP.  
Ah, the old `BEEEEEEEEEEP´ noise Zedd had grown unaccustomed to. The default sound in old phones, he recalled. He put down the handset onto the landline telephone and slithered out from under the bed.

He ignored his need to sleep that night. Not because he was paralyzed with fear due to the threatening, dangerous nature of the phone call earlier, because he wasn't, really. What kept him awake was partly the call he made to the police afterwards. His expactations of the english police force clearly had been utterly overestimated. All the time he sat behind the cashew-brown satin curtain in the livingroom, waiting to get through, eating tons of M&Ms, and then finally hearing a real voice answering he was told in mid sentence that they couldn't help him over a phone. The lady on the other end explained oppressively he must come down to the station and file a report of the incidient himself, then someone would be assigned to help him further. Zedd felt miserable. There was no time for him to visist the station because he had a boring flight to catch at the break of dawn, like in 122,2 minutes.

So he called a friend without an old telephone, making sure he could stay with him this racing weekend in Austin(this was the summer he would start avoiding hotels), and then updated his status on social media for his fans. Usually that would be his assistant's job. But she was currently ignoring him and his cyberfans, so he had to take the cyborg by its bionic hind legs this time and mention something about the coming race.  
Slowly he typed:  
_Had a fun day in Milkton Screwnes today! Dave proposed to Clark and the Aussie fainted. What a hilarious scene. Wedding ceremony could happen after I beat everyone to the quechered flag on Sunday! See you at the circuit in Austin!_  
  
He then changed his mind and wiped out the part about his teammates, then typed regretfully:  
_Couldn't be more excited about racing in Austin this weekend. Woho._  
  
For the longest while he stared emotionless at the last word in his post, wishing he could have shared this significant moment with his formula 1 car. Unfortunately had fate brought her on board a cargo ship seven hours ago. He had waved her good bye under a cherry-pie sky, flailing his arms hysterically at the leaving boat as it knocked a group of bustling scuba divers out of its way. Apart from each other they were two desperate pieces of the same chip, only wanting to reunite again. She was the piece that always crushed against him when they were joined as one again, bruising and fighting him, lovingly. There were a lot of half pieces of the human kind out there too that bumped into him every so often, some amazingly got stuck while others nibbled on him in distaste and tumbled on.  
Suddenly, his phone buzzed and a box poped up on the screen, then another one and another one. He scrutinized the messages quickly as they kept coming, filling up the large screen to every end that he almost feared they would plop out and stick to his face.  
  
_"Is he going to USA to race??? :O"_  
_":D He must be drunk as fuck!"_  
_"LOL! Zedd's trolling us."_  
_"Can me and my family join you Zedd? pls we love american food..thx"_  
_"Hey champ :):):) You're not joining Clark for the spanish GP on sunday? I was hoping to get to meet you guys and get my butt signed ;) Best of luck!"_  
_"Zedd...double check the calender... it's VALENCIA week ffs"_  
_":'( thanks for sharing :(:("_  
_"Zedd, where to buy a rear wishbone from your team? I've checked every F1 store online with no luck...soo any chance I can buy one from the factory? Anway... good luck in Austin ;)"_

  
Zedd's unwavering instinct told him he shouldn't, by any fault, involve himself with this stuff now when he had realized these messages were replies from his fans. Firstly, they were most likely stalkers, maybe. Second, there was no part in him that longed to connect with them through a device. And by the way, he had apparently screwed up by telling them he was going to Texas when it was indeed Singapore.  
How terrifically media-smart of him.  
Lately, media had been pestering him for all the wrong reasons, like why he did a third of the Australian race in the opposite direction and why he ignored team orders and had a massive banana split for lunch in his car. Things would certainly start changing now.  
Soon enough, Zedd put his phone on mute and tiredly watched the busy screen turn black. Rear wishbones, he chuckled inwardly, rubbing the side of his face against the soft curtain sheltering him from the big, open space of his hotel suit. In the back of his mind he was making a mental list covering the names of the drivers likely to end up in dire need of his help. Clark, surprisingly ended up on it , far down, beneath the Spanish driver Nando Alenado who had claimed the endearing seventh place. Zedd and Clark weren't good friends, but he had a most perceptive feeling that beneath that surface of paranormal Aussie grit; there was a seed of undying love for him.

  
Later, as Zedd was shaving off his beard after a long night someone knocked on his hotel door. A postman always rings twice, he thought hypothetically and not very relevantly. He opened the door curiously. It was his assistant. Brenda? Hugiheratha? It was one of those forgettable names. She held her iBluh phone up to him, showing a very recent well-calculated post about going to Austin that he was the creator of.  
  
"Are you freaking kidding me Zedd?"

"You left me to die, Brenda!" He exclaimed passionately.

"Beurta!" She yelled back at him, calling him Beurta for some reason. "Do you seriously think this is just gonna sort itself out? It's maybe not a big thing if you're some old air headed granny in pink underwear posting bs. Just blank it out, people won't give a flying hoot. You on the other hand..."

He backed away from the doorway to see her stomp inside, carrying on a few fancy paper bags he could tell came from top exclusive clothing stores. He imagined how good they'd all look on him at the One Dull's mystery bag event on Saturday. One thing his mother had taught him was that paper was the next best thing to fabric. His assistant dumped the bags on the bed and started unpacking clothes. Zedd Froze. Men's clothing. This meant she had read his emails without wanting to make him aware of it. Women were dangerous—

"You didn't answer my mails," he said. "You didn't return my calls."

—organized

"Yeah, so?" She shrugged, handing him a pair of stonewashed jeans. "I was on vacation. You know, the ones we lesser human beings go on to get the feeling of being endlessly happy."

—and unpredictable. Zedd climbed out of his sweatpants in front of her. She folded them for him and tucked them into his One Dull travel bag. Never had he felt this wrongfully treated before.

"You didn't notify me you were going away and strand me in England."

"Okey fine, I stranded you," she admitted as he crawled inside his new snazzy t-shirt. "Left you to fend yourself against everything you don't know a damn about."

That took him by surprise. Forsaking allies was something only engine manufacturers from southern Europe did. Then he remembered how Brenda was working for the Italian manufacturer Burrari some years ago. He forgave her and together they cheerfully packed his belongings, left the room untidy and took the futuristic-looking elevator, entirely made of glass, down to the lobby. He stood watching the ground through the floor as the elevator smoothly slid down the outside of the hotel. She was going through her white and pink handbag, he was guessing because of the many noises of tiny, female things rattling about.

"This is your new paddock pass," she announced coolly, handing over a sealed envelope and then pulled out one of her many important binders. This one was orange like a yellow stop light. She reached him that one as well. "And this is the usual binder with your new schedules and diet plans, you know, stuff you should try harder to remember."

"Yeah, yeah," he said quickly. He opened the binder, and all the papers fell out on the floor.

"Hey!" Brenda exclaimed, staring astounded at the widespread papers and then at his empty binder that her hand flew out to snatch from his own.

"Wait!" He declared, too late. She had already taken the binder from him and was already on her knees before him, gathering papers as much as her courage to presumably ask for his hand in a long-term intimate relationship. Unfortunately the elevator ride wouldn't last long enough for a proposal, marriage and also their agamic honey moon. That said, she couldn't be the one for him, obviously. When he got the binder back with all the papers stuck inside, he opened it to look for the paper that had caught his attention when on the floor. The elevator then stopped and the doors slid open. Brenda grabbed him by his travel bag and easily pulled him along through the lobby out the entrance to her baby blue sedan, parked out front. And while he flipped the papers she fit his bags into her well-organized trunk.  
He didn't notice much of it because of what was written, in red ink, on the back of the tireless ´guide to enter and exit a pit stop lane correctly` inside of his binder. The note said, "burning my neighbor's wheels" and "changing the wheels as he lay dying". Was that confessions of future crimes? As far as Zedd knew, only mechanics and people wearing Pitralli gear were uniquely interested in wheels in formula 1. This, in any case, disturbed him deeply. Why did he have to know this? Was he a member of the unspoken FIA underworld now for some reason? Was he really worth the trouble of including?

"Get inside, Zedd!" Brenda demanded cheerful as graveyard and slammed her door shut with a ferocity that somehow turned into an omen; Yes, he was worth a lot of including, distinctively chosen to perform the dangerous double-sided mission of decreeing a blood war while racing for victory.

He got inside the car, and he commanded dead-seriously: "Drive me to the airport, Brenda. I got a crime-stained race to win."

"If you call me that again, I will destroy your RV and I will post a picture of it on your social media with a text that says: ´I crashed my RV cause I suck at driving. Sad face´."

He looked over at her, narrowing his eyes as he casually put on his shades. "...Changing the wheels as he lay dying. Suspicious face."

"Wow," she whispered in disbelief, putting her foot down on the gas and they zoomed away from the hotel towards the airport.

He was astounded, then not so much. It was pretty clear she was helplessly oblivious to the super-secret messages he had found on the back of that idle "how-to-pit" guide among his papers. These hooligans of the formula one community were certainly real natural professionals in delivering obscene directives unseen, kind of hiding among friends and that's why he had such a rough time making enemies. He thought it deadly important to play their game for as long as possible. Becoming an enemy among enemies, he reflected, picking up a pen from the floor and etched "I <3 wheels" on the palest side of his left arm.  
Looking back, he probably could have come up with a better smiley if he'd given it another moment of thought. Poopy face comes to mind.


	3. To the land of siestas

After stepping on board the plane, Zedd couldn't fight what his brain wanted most: sleep vertically. He fell asleep standing in the aisle, about four meters from the closest seat to him. He traveled with a few members of his team and Dave who also owned the airplane. They would definitely make safe the area around him in case he had a nightmare about running out of fuel in Monaco. He trusted most of them with his life, even when being fast asleep in the air where they could suddenly declare war on each other and catapult energy drinks around.

For what seemed like almost eight minutes, he dreamt of following a fox through thorny, yet honey smooth shrubs to the song "I breath" by Vacuum. It was the most aggravating chase he had ever done, because the fox had stolen his paddock pass, and he couldn't run fast enough to catch it.  
Then suddenly everything made a huge, otherworldly turn as he found himself in his formula one car, going in 310km/h on the straight of Silverstone under gathering clouds. He got the first splatter of rain when he entered the pit-lane for a tire change. Oddly enough he couldn't spot anyone ahead, all garages were barricaded and from what he saw through his wet visor, the pit-walls were all unoccupied. No one was answering him on team radio either on what to do here. He steered his car inside the white lines outside the garage with his name above and stopped, inwardly debating if he should get out and look for his pit crew. Then the rainfall became more intense. A wall of rain was approaching and moved over the pit-exit and heavy drops hammered harder against his helmet. About to push the throttle to the floor, he froze in motion when the crew's lollipop man came running towards him. In suspense he observed the pit sign being positioned in front of his car and kept the brake on, but that wasn't what the sign said. He pulled the visor up, feeling as though it would help him see better. And while the rain was sprinkling over his eyes like a garden's hose, he was able to make out the words:

**Hazard ahead!**

Then the sign turned over:

 **They're**  
**all**  
**dead**

That was shocking! He shuddered. Every part of his body told him to move his foot off the break pedal— every part but his other foot, which really felt numb and detached from his leg. He couldn't force it to move.  
"Safety car!" He shouted. The helmet and the whirring noise of the rain completely drowned his voice. He pulled down the visor to relieve himself from the cold water and took a deep, sharp breath. In front of him the lollipop man slowly kept flipping the pit sign over and over like a brain-dead one. Again Zedd called out for safety car, then over the team radio as well. Where they all truly dead? He felt scared. His heart was giving him bruises on the inside of his rib cage with its rageful beating.

"Wake up. . ." Some Scottish voice suddenly commanded.

Zedd opened his eyes a slit and in the blur of his awakening feat, he reached for the hairy object touching his forehead and gently grasped at it. It was just his own arm. Phew. Then he saw Dave's squared face come through the mist. It added an alien glamour to a perfect sense.

"What are you doing?" He wondered sheepishly, noticing he was sitting in one of the seats now.

"What are you doing?" Countered Dave.

"I dreamed I saw a dark mass of rain flooding the track and paddocks of Silverstone," he narrated dramatically. "I was in the pits for a tire change. The world was terrifyingly empty around me. I saw a pit sign, but it didn't make any sense. I couldn't move. I could only yell for... Safety car."

"What's he saying?!" Christy called from a short distance away.

"He had a nightmare about a poorly executed pit-stop at Silverstone," Dave reported.

"Was I in it?" Christy asked then.

Zedd shook his head, dropping his arms down onto his comfortable, wine red seat.

"Negative!" Dave soothed Christy's worries.

"Makes absolute sense then! Sorry you had a bad dream Zedd!"

Since they had obviously moved him in his sleep, it was no wonder to Zedd why he had been having nightmares. He decided he would put a "do not move or disturb" sign over his face next time he needed a vertical nap, for safety as he couldn't rely on these people to keep their hands off his lean body, apparently.

"Well, I'm not a shaman or anything, but sounds to me you got some fears to work out," Dave suggested knowledgeably.

He sounded proud of his own conclusion. He sat down on the opposite seat and took his shoes off, oddly enough, which revealed a pair of mismatching socks on his feet in the shades of pink and white. Zedd cringed. The Scandinavian car syndrome. Quickly he pulled his feet up from the floor so that the monstrosity down there wouldn't spread on to him.

"You wazzock," he gasped loudly, successfully silencing the joyful murmur of their teammates.

"Are you podophobic, Zedd?" asked Dave, the man of difficult words.

"I don't know! But you stole my parking spot!"

"No! No! Of course not! That would've been weird. I've no clue who parked in yours." Then Dave added more quietly, "Can you get on the podium on Sunday do you believe?"

As predicted, the Scottish ex-driver made a desperate move to change the subject. It was utterly accordingly to the well-known american tourist brochure, Learn the universal behavior of dishonest people.

"Only if you can tell me why we're going to Singapore this early in the season." Zedd gave him a suspicious look through the heart he shaped with his fingers to let him know he was on to his secret criminal life.

Dave smiled at him and opened his mouth, words coming out. Zedd wasn't listening. His mind was moving quickly: Two of his teammates wearing mismatched socks, none of them admitting theft of parking spot, the phone call, angry assistant, burning my neighbor's wheels. . . It didn't make any sense. He thought some more. He switched to another seat in the back of the plane. He stopped thinking and looked at Clark, sitting in the opposite seat.

Clark was reading David Coulthard's autobiography, _It is what it is_. The rumors said David Coulthard paid himself to write it, print it, publish it and lastly read it. Was the title referring to the large volumes of smartness in that decision or was it simply generalizing the life of every mediocre racing driver? Maybe Zedd was being rude, but it seemed in one way that David choose that title for the express purpose of snibbling and make drivers like Clark feel his efforts didn't matter.

"Good practice race at Silverstone yesterday," Zedd said to fill the silence. "Just sixpointeight seconds gap on the last lap and twenty-two seconds after your little dance at the Loop. So...When are you planning on catching up with me?"

Clark closed his book and put it down on the round table between them. "Zedd, I'm not incompetent. I'm learning."

"Well, now you're just splitting hairs," Zedd guffawed, pulling up the blind to peek out through the window. He was in a good mood, which he was keen on transferring to his friends and co-workers with his superior sense of humor. Clark wasn't complaining. Why would he? He seemed peculiarly fine being one of the oldest students in the classroom with B's and C's scattered all across his results. He was in the same league as that seven-time F1 world champion Manfred Schulumochar was nowadays: Not very good, yet not very bad.  
Out the window beneath the blanket of cotton-like clouds, beyond them Zedd could see valleys and meadows, lagoon-blue lakes embraced by miles of forest. Here and there in between the lush rifts and smooth ridges tiny villages popped up like lumps of sugar cubes. He lifted his eyes an inch and beheld a wall of thrusting spires of rock where the unending, jewel-blue sky met land. The mountains were entangled by a late morning mist, glowing lively in colors of sparkling yellow and his Rolex watch. Despite the fact that Singapore is known for its many white beaches and being pretty small overall, he knew from earlier experiences that there was more to Singapore than a street circuit. He hadn't taken his time to look out the airplane before when going there and now he was glad he had.

"I have never seen this side of Singapore before," he confessed thoughtfully.

"It's Spain," Clark said.

  
Zedd turned his head to face his teammate so he would be the first to see him blush in case he was being wrong. Frankly, he find this years racing schedule very clumsily planned than the previous seasons. They had recently finished the Canadian GP and before that they had competed in Spain, and then now they were off for a racing tour in Asia two weeks later, it's not really okey. He thought of writing a complaint to his boss and stick it in his pocket after they had landed.

"Everyone keeps babbling about Spain." He tore off one of the pages from the back of Clark's book. "Do me a favor. Write down the name of the track we're heading to on this."

Clark did as he was told, taking his time though by drawing the track too and then signing it at the bottom. Zedd quickly read the name on top of the drawing. "Curcuito de Valencia" as in "awful Valencia"? As in, they were going to spend the next few days racing in a haze of boredom? Well. He would at least enter the track bathing in shocked surprise from media and fans as they believed he was in Texas by now.

Then he recalled the handwriting on his pit-stop guide. Clark's handwriting reminded him of it, which only meant one thing: Clark could be the unseen dispatcher! Clark was offering him his drawing now. Zedd brought up his phone and took a snap shot of it, then he smoothly slid off his seat cushion to the floor and started crawling on his knees towards the front. There were eyes on this plane that could be watching him. He had to draw as little attention to him as possible now when he was an undercover criminal-agent. He thought of what kind of criminal he wanted t be in the future. Scarface and Robin Hood came to his mind. He enjoyed camping and archery, but having a scar on his face and own mountains of cocaine in Cuba was also in his interest.

Outside the passenger cabin, close to the passenger door, there was a baggage storage for those who traveled light. Zedd had left both his keyboard and travel bag there earlier, before he had fallen asleep. He crawled all the way up to the shelves and pulled down his bag to the floor, opened it carefully and dug up his orange binder. He felt excitement when he flipped the pages and a drop of fear explode when he pulled out the guide with the weird writing on the back. This was the moment of truth. Was Clark the tyrant behind these messages? He held his phone in one hand, looking back and forth between the snap shot and the paper until he realized he had been wrong. That handwriting on his paper didn't match with Clark's one bit. So, back to the strategy map.  
He had a warm energy drink for snack while he contemplated. So far, he hadn't revealed the messenger's true identity and he still had to find out which driver was in need of his help. He had to start ruling out names on his list now, and starting with Clark seemed like a half-great idea considering they were stuck in the same place with no ways of escape.

He went back to his seat, trying to look like he had just missed pole position by a tenth second or worse and was trying to look unsuccessfully unbothered by it. He wasn't sure why, just something about his brooding expressions gave him lots of attention and all sorts of opportunities.

"You seem happy," Clark commented airily, accordingly to his expectations.

Zedd shrugged nonchalantly, just for show. He was typing a text message to him in the meantime:

 _"Do you need help with anything?"_  
  
Clark's phone made a sound. Zedd was looking out the window, pretending he had no idea whose text that could be. Then he got a reply and opened it.

_"Yeah"_

Zedd's heart stopped. He quickly replied.

_"What?"_

_"It's very private"_

_"50 euro?"_

They looked at each other momentarily, then back down on their screens.  
  
_"65?"  
_  
_"Why are you haggling?"  
_  
_"So you'll tell me your secret man. 170?"  
_  
_"I'm not gonna do this. If you really feel like helping, I'll tell you what my problem is."  
_  
_"Go on..."_  
  
Clark's fingers hesitated for many seconds. Zedd watched them intently, wondering if Clark's problem included moving dead bodies. Then his phone buzzed again and he looked at it instantly.  
  
_"I want to be a daddy, but I'm unable to."  
_  
_"And..."  
_  
_"Will you help me have a kid?"_  
  
Zedd was shocked. That wasn't even close to the kind of help he had offered him in the first place. Now this had to be a big joke, he thought. Then looking into Clark's brown-emerald eyes he saw the one thing Clark couldn't say: Everytime I look at you it takes all the self-restraint I can muster to not steal your perfect seed and use it to make a world champion baby.  
Zedd stopped texting and went back to the baggage storage where he stayed for the rest of the trip. Neither he or Clark dared to speak with each other more that day. They only shared awkward looks here and there, especially at the airport when they ended up in that same rest room which lock was broken. Thank godness their each own RV waited for them outside the building. Zedd didn't want to have to go through another bathroom accident with Clark, or share breakfast with him on the opposite sides of a small, folding table.  
By that evening, they were all crammed inside their motorhomes near the paddock. The Spanish summer was everywhere, in smells, in sounds and the heat was making people sweat like sunbathing tomatoes. Zedd was sitting on his bed, skyping with his engineers while he typed one word into the searchbar: Sparmdonor. Google asked, "Did you mean 'Spamalot?' " He said, "yes."


	4. A new older car

At breakfast the next morning, it was a Thursday, Zedd was having his usual gluten-free skittles with gluten-free milk when there was a banging on his door. A rather uncontrollable bang-bang-bang-bangbang-bangbangbang-ZEDD-bangBANG-BANG banging. He knew by now who it was: His assistant. She was occasionally the only girl in the world who wouldn't stop stalking him. He put as much skittles as he could on his spoon and put it in his mouth. Then he chewed meanwhile Brenda increased the force in her banging and yelling.  
How thoughtful of Brenda to try break down the door when she could just as easily open it. Zedd got up and opened it expectantly. It was indeed his assistant. Her lips was a thin line and her hair was turning grey from exhausting his door.  
  
"Zedd," she growled. "Why don't you answer your phone?"  
  
"I'm avoiding Clark," he hissed, knowing he could be hiding under his RV. "He's so weird, you know." He shifted awkwardly. He felt comfortable talking about a lot of things, but Clark Nebber wasn't one of those things anymore.  
  
"Listen, your team analyst called me because you wouldn't answer your phone," she explained harshly. "I hate engineers and I hate to be on phone with them—you know this! And now they made me go to you to break the shitty news about your car."  
  
He accidently slapped her cheek with his spoon out of terror. "My car?!"  
  
"Yes!" She snatched the spoon from him and hit his forehead with it.  
  
"Hmm," he hummed like a scientist on to something. "I see..."  
  
"Yep, wheels are pretty messed up. And don't ask me about the details cause I can't remember what exactly the analyst said, but it's very complicated and can take them up to a week to have it repaired."

Zedd had a shocking realization. _The wheel notes!_ It was inescapable. They were threats against him all along. Maybe his wheels are burnt and melted into a pile of something artistic and unidentifiable. Maybe this was his first warning for taking too long. According to the other message, one of his next pit-stops could be the one where he's lying down and dying simultaneously. Quickly, heedlessly, Zedd pushed Brenda aside, and she lost her balance, falling backward onto the ground. He yelled he was sorry meters away and hurried for the makeshift garage-site. Not until tomorrow they were allowed moving inside the pits, as today they were occupied by GT sports car teams and snowmen from Scandinavia.

 

At the garage-site waited a German tv-team, aiming lens and mic at Zedd's face in high hopes. He grabbed the mic from the pretty, brown-haired reporter just as he passed them and threw it up on the roof of team Burrari's red trailer. Behind him they cried obscure sounds of gratitude, obviously appreciating he gave them something more exciting to do. Holding his breath, he then entered his team's temporary garage, two indigo trailers joined together. Three men wearing the same team polo as him busily worked in there, getting all cars and gears together for the grand prix. Also Skyler, the analyst was in there with them. Zedd saw his car further in, no nose cone, no rear wing, no engine cover, no wheels save from brake ducts. Still, she was beautiful looking. He was suddenly blushing. Her engine, uncovered and with exhaust pipes fully exposed, were too enchanting to be real. He walked over, bent down to investigate them with his hands. Skyler pulled his hands away from the car quickly and they nearly fell over.  
  
"Let's not touch the car, okey?" Skyler pulled Zedd up to stand and brought him a few steps away from the car. "So. . . we discovered a couple of strange damages on your F1 car earlier. Eh . . . the fairing is off in three of four wishbones, looks like clean cuts, like its been cut with scissors. The upright is jammed, brusied in all four brake ducts so no discs fits anymore. And sadly we don't have the right fairings for your updated build. The factory is already on it, however the ETA is four to five days. From the looks of things, you're unable to race this weekend."  
  
"That is later and this is now," Zedd replied, trying to locate anything in there remotely recognizable as something ordinary. "And this is a wrench." He pointed. "And that's a glove. And you have glasses. And I'm gonna win this race." His voice was full of that stoic self-confidence of an international ultra-legend.  
  
"How exactly?" Skyler crossed his arms. Not very easily persuaded.  
  
"I'm the driver and also the hero," Zedd reminded him. "And you guys are engineers. . . and I'll split my trophy with you after the race if you can fix me a fast car by tomorrow. Is it a deal?"  
  
Skyler grabbed his own hair with both hands, looking as if he was about to cry and then went over to the bench he had his computer on. Zedd watched him click through menus, open new windows and closing them soon after, like he was looking for something specific and hidden in there. Skyler stared very intently at the screen, wanting to mentally dominating it like a Jedi at the same time he looked ready to pin anyone up against the wall. All of his arm muscles trembled. He was typing very loudly now. One of his co-workers went up to him and Zedd could only see them discussing something very important. Shortly after, Skyler accepted his offer with a tiny detail added: most parts of the new car would be about five years old and decaying.  
Zedd nodded with resolve and looked over at his beautiful car. Faster than his wheelless supernova machine? He guessed that was true. He needed a car that could move forward and the good thing about rusting vehicles is they don't weight as much. Suddenly he felt more appeased with the outcome of this conversation. He said his thanks and left them to go on with their job.  
  
At lunch he sat with his boss Christy and Hugh Jackman, the actor who was here as a guest for another team. Hugh couldn't recall which team it was though, but he had seen himself inside One Dull's bakerystation, and was feeling unhappy with the salad he had picked from their salad bar. It was understandable, looking at the napkins and bags of pepper and salt on his plate. He had to be on some sort of high fiber-diet, Zedd thought, sprinkling his pasta with some more salt and also pieces from a napkin. Socializing with actors always made him inspired to make radical lifestyle changes. Christy had a lunch bag with him he hadn't opened. "Dave's little dream-cookie" was written on it. When Zedd asked why Dave only made him a cookie, Christy looked indifferently at him in silence. Zedd gave him a small bag of skittles and made a note to bring more with him tomorrow for this poor man.  
  
Later Christy brought up the inconvenience of the accident with his car, never had he experienced a car breaking apart on its own like that. He sort of blamed the weather, mentioning how ruthless tornadoes can be out at sea and sometimes its simply seagulls. Zedd agreed for the sake of it, knowing some seagulls risked everything just to fuck you over. But it wasn't likely seagulls were after him this time around, but a whole vicious organization of presumably humans hiding within FIA. He kept this secretive information to himself. Christy couldn't find out he was a target for a pit-stop assassination yet, because there was still a little bit of time for him to save the day. All he must do is to find that driver in desperate need of saving and help him out. The big question lingered there in Zedd's bright mind while taking a leak: _It couldn't be Clark they meant him to help, could it?_

Later on he got a mail from his agent on his way to the pre-race drivers press conference. She had sent him a handy list of things he could tell the journalists if they had questions concerning him switching to another much older car for the race and also why he posted those lines about Austin yesterday. _"I was crying behind the couch then one of my friends from Cold Play (terribly sorry Zedd I don't know his name!) came by and asked if I knew anything about strawberry farming which made me think of Austin, so I accidently went there with Cold Play (Yes say ALL OF THEM!!!) and had I bad, bad cartwheel race with them, then I came here to Spain as quickly as I could. Got nothing more to add,"_ was just one of her many suggestions of sensible replies. His friend from Cold Play would be pleased to be mentioned on international TV for sure. He couldn't remember the guy's name anymore though, probably due to a mild head trauma caused by a recent cutlery incident outside his RV.


	5. Married at a press conference

The conference room was a strange place for anyone coming from the outside with no insight of the ever so serious Formula one world. Could anyone imagine the rows of journalists sitting on folding chairs, flapping pens on their cheeks with their noses turned to a small scene in the front where four serious, non-smoking men sits perfectly arranged by a long table dressed in a marble-blue cloth—then they probably watched another Motorsport conference and could never guess how much better and more professional the ones FIA arranged for Formula one were. Zedd enjoyed them, as far as he kept getting his answers right, but when it came to how easily you could screw up and beyond that, it also made him super nervous. Last year he lost his girlfriend during a press conference in Japan and unfortunately he hadn't been able to win her back so far. They hadn't talked for months or even seen each other since then, save from a postcard she sent him three days after they got separated, letting him know she had bought a cat door for her over-sized tortoise and had fried coconut for dinner. The little things in life.

Outside of the conference room, Zedd was taken care of by a curvy man-lady with a sponge that she dusted his face with quickly. The dust was very important. All drivers had to have dust on their faces so viewers and fans would think they tumbled around with their cars in gravel, fighting them rather than driving them flawlessly with their dust-proofed helmets on. He then entered the room and was met by a big round of applauds from the mob of journalists sitting on the carpeted floor. He saw that Jason Buffon and Manfred Schulumacher, two driver colleagues, were clapping their hands as well, unsurprisingly of course. Zedd was a likable character. The third driver, Nando Alenado was nervously rolling his thumbs on the table before them, unable to pay any attention to him. Coming up to them, Zedd sat down on the chair between Manfred and Jason. He looked sideways at Jason. It occurred to him that he had never seen him use a lighter. Interestingly enough, he had also never seen him commit a crime. Could the two be related?  
  
And then, the press conference-host himself entered the room: A tall man dressed in a lime-green suit jacket along with a pair of brown pants. The suit vest he wore was eye-catching purple, which made his blue and white tie uncomfortable to look at. Zedd kept his eyes mostly on the big hat on the man's head. A giant, yellow toy formula one car was attached to it by a wiggling spring. The car wobbled in all directions up there whenever the man moved, making it a constant mystery how the hat stayed on his head.  
The TV-host faced one of two cameras in there, and they went on air. Manfred chugged his glass of water that moment and was quickly refilling it.  
  
"Welcome to another sparkling Formula one press conference," the TV-host happily announced. "The joyful Q and A for Formula one drivers that our computer picked out randomly the night before. Send in a driver or his name. The name and the driver has to be the same. Well, he must be a driver with a name so to speak, and he gets to be on TV and answer questions, or he MIGHT get to be on TV and answer questions or maybe another driver gets to be on TV and answer questions. I'm rather unsure, BUT one of them gets to be here and me especially at all times, and that's what matters most!" He chuckled dryly."And here today with us we have four drivers. It is Jason Buffon from team McLaddie."  
  
Jason waved his hand politely at the audience, because that's what he had been told to do from the moment he was born.  
  
"Zedd Battle from team One Dull Racing," the TV-host continued.  
  
Zedd had a gloomy, brooding expression on his face, and made a show of being too cool to care about anything.  
  
". . .Manfred Schulumocher from team Mercuries and Nando Alenado from team Burrari. Welcome, welcome." The man was now facing them. "You are familiar with the rules? Good 'cause I hardly am, as I am too busy with my own career as a TV-host. But I think they are something like: You have these three items from the start: your team caps, a display window, and a chewing gum machine."  
  
Zedd got excited. A display window will look perfect in front of his trophy collection at home and now he had one.  
  
"Then you gotta collect more and more stuff," continued the TV-host. "And the driver who doesn't collect anything, must give away his things and go home empty handed. That's about it. I now turn to you Zedd."  
  
Zedd held his head a bit higher to hear him better above the clunking noises from Manfred's throat.  
  
"I say Hockenheim wasn't built in one day, what say you?"  
  
"It wasn't Disney land either," Zedd answered quickly.  
  
"Yes, that's correct. You've won a paintbrush!" A big picture of a brush showed up on the big screen behind the drivers. Jason and Zedd turned themselves around to have a look at it. Zedd thought it looked more like a toothbrush, although, this one was placed next to a can of paint, which didn't make sense for a toothbrush. Clearly he would need to buy paint after this.  
  
"Manfred, your turn," the TV-host called. "Kiwi Pulkkinen worked at a laundry store before he became a F1 driver say I, what say you?"  
  
Manfred poured himself some water. "No one talks about Modern Talking anymore."  
  
The TV-host glanced into the camera, smiling nervously. "No, that was a wild guess," he said, looking at Manfred now. "How did you come up with Modern Talking?"  
  
"You know you are the best, you can beat the rest," Manfred crooned. "Weren't they called that, the ones who sang it?"  
  
"Yes, that's true," the TV-host agreed kindly. "That's good Manfred, but you lost anyway and must give up your hat. However you get a Toyoda because you sang so nicely! The right answer, what is it, Zedd?"  
  
"Yes!" Zedd exclaimed, partly in triumph, mostly in glee.  
  
"Yes, it's correct!" The TV-host cheered."You get a complete car park with Russian flags!"  
  
A photo of a large car park showed up on the big screen meanwhile a couple of journalists and Jason Buffon applauded Zedd and his brilliance. There were indeed two russian flags positioned on top of the building, Zedd confirmed with satisfaction.  
  
"Next question is for you Jason," the TV-host said and read from his cue cards, "undertray is a kind of a tray you use when you're wearing underpants say I, what say you?"  
  
"That's. . . what you think," Jason replied slightly hesitant.  
  
"Yes, that's right," said the TV-host in shock. "I surely did! You've won a behind-the-scenes movie about the making of these press conferences! Nando, now it's your turn, last question."  
  
"Yes," Nando agreed softly with a Spanish accent, removing his fingers from his teeth. He had been biting on his nails up to this moment, and now he was pale as a white flag warning for slow moving vehicles on track.  
  
The TV-host was smiling. "Explain briefly about the F-duct system say I, what say you?"  
  
For a very short moment, Nando sat in pure fear with his wide-eyes lowered on the table. "I can't," he confessed at length, looking humbly at him.  
  
"No, I didn't think so either," said the TV-host, facing a camera. "Not many of us can! Now leave all your things before you go, Nando. Adios!"

A woman in a lime-green dress hooked her arm around Nando's just as he left his chair, smiling expressively at him with her perfectly polished white teeth. Usually she would escort the loser out, but Nando hasted for the door instantly, taking no care about the unprepared woman trying to hold on to him without falling facedown. Zedd had seen this kind of behavior before in his grandfather's cattle. When an ox calls it a day, he drags the plow and farmer with him back home, much in the same way, altogether emotionally detached to everything. How was Nando emotionally detached all of sudden? Had he been hanging around with the wrong kind of reserved people lately? Like...sociopaths with a passion for _wheels and murder?_  
  
"We're getting a new driver to join the press conference," declared the TV-host suddenly. "For which you must be a driver or else you can't participate. As a job, that is. You probably understand better than I do. I got so much else to think about as I'm a TV host. At least, here's one who gets it, our next contestant: Raycé Trébuchet from team Lowcuss. Welcome!"  
  
A guy with a willowy, muscular body was pushed inside the room and left by the doorway with no escape route out, because the door had just closed right in front of his lightly curved nose. A desperate french-like sigh of defeat escaped him before he faced the room and walked up to Zedd and the others. He was feeling uncomfortable and misplaced, especially the moment he grabbed the chair next to Zedd to pull it out and he accidentally tipped it over instead. Jason was on his feet on instant, picking up Raycé's chair and held it for him. When they were all seated again, the press conference continued.

"Racyé, you have a team cap, a display window and a chewing gum machine," said the TV-host. "Zedd's much tighter. He has also a car park and a paintbrush. You can either trade your things for Zedd's or move on like nothing happened say I, what say you?"  
  
Zedd stiffened, slowly turning his head to look Raycé in his eyes. It had been too much of a distance between them before, but his eyes were blue. Really cloudless sky blue and full of irrelevant emotions. Someone should name an ant species after the guy, Zedd thought.  
  
"I'll trade with Zedd," Raycé decided with a heavy french accent.  
  
"That's a fine choice, 'cause then you have more stuff than him," the TV-host pointed out. "I'm sorry Zedd, you were good but Raycé was better. You can either give up all your items or have a shot at next question. What do you choose?"  
  
Suddenly, Zedd's eyes started blazing. Nothing makes him angrier than when when people thinks he has a choice. "I want my stuff back," he retorted sharply.  
  
"Then I ask you, Zedd Battle. Do you take Raycé Trébutchet to be your lawfully wedded husband to love and hold for as long as you shall live say I, what say you?"  
  
"Yes, I do." Zedd didn't give it a second thought. He wanted his car park back at all costs.  
  
The other drivers stared at him with their eyebrows curving almost all the way up to the ceiling. Raycé was looking at him, too, eyeing him somberly.  
  
"That's right Zedd!" The TV-host smiled. "Cause then you get your things back and a french hubby into the bargain. Congratulations Raycé, you just got married on TV say I, what say you?"  
  
Raycé was looking at Zedd's hands, folded on the table. "How nice."  
  
"That's right Raycé, it's nice! You win a walk!" A photo of a walking trail showed up on the screen behind the drivers. Some journalists were clapping their hands awkwardly.  
  
"But I'm already married," the french driver argued once it was painfully quiet in the room.  
  
"He's already married he says," the TV-host commented into a camera, gleefully."Sure we know that, but it doesn't matter 'cause we already took care of that. Come inside Muriel!"

Muriel, a graceful, handsome brunette strutted inside on high heels, joining the tall TV-host's side and fired of a compassionate smile in her ex-husbands direction. Raycé buried his face in his hands and Manfred accidentally spilled water on himself. Zedd wondered how they had managed to exist at all before he arrived.  
  
"Here she is, your ex-wife, Raycé." The TV-host wrapped his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to his side. "She doesn't mind to get divorced, as long as she can do it on TV say I, what say you?"  
  
"Oui." She nodded.  
  
"That's correct, you've won a dog whistle!"  
  
One of the journalists happened to think it a wonderful decision to eternalize this horrible moment by taking a picture for his magazine. The clicking noise was followed by the sound of some other journalist aggressively clearing his throat and then another journalist started sobbing. Things were going to hell so quickly that Zedd expected all furniture to spontaneously self-combust at any second. Why did it have to be a married french guy with a wife? A french guy. _A guy!_  
  
"Now I'm asking you Raycé, do you want the jackpot cars, the mystery box or the wheel of fortune?"  
  
Leaning close to his ear, Zedd told him quietly to go for the jackpot cars.  
  
"Mystery box," Raycé announced instead, deciding he was the decision maker in their relationship.  
  
A big box on wheels came swooshing towards the TV-host. "Here it is!" He cried excitedly, grabbing a hold of it. "What's in it, Raycé? A million euros say I, what say you?"  
  
Zedd's eyes widened. That box was the same box they'd used as a platform for that monopoly game the other summer, and inside they'd stored Johnny Herbert's collection of porcelain poodles!  
  
"Porcelain noodles!" He yelled desperately.  
  
Raycé frowned and banged his fist on the table, accidentally knocking Manfred's glass off it. "No! A million Euros!"  
  
"No, it's a driver: Clark Nebber from One Dull Racing. Welcome!" The TV-host reached his hands to the ceiling as the lid came off the box and Clark's head popped up, amazingly.  
  
Journalists clapped their hands with unimpressed expressions on their faces and both Raycé and Zedd looked like they had just seen their million dollar boat eat every guest at their wedding and the cake too.  
  
"Now you get to climb into the box instead, Muriel," said the tv-host, giving her a helping hand to climb into it. "Because Raycé got the answer wrong, and you're already divorced anyway, fun huh?"  
  
"Oui."  
  
"So long, have a good life from now on!" He waved at her as the box was dragged out of the room, and would probably never turn up again. "Newly divorced and gorgeous, well-known from TV and all," the TV-host added with a chuckle. "What a shame you got the answer wrong, Raycé. You were so close."

Zedd glared at his french husband. "Yeah, why didn't you take the jackpot cars like I said?"  
  
"Because I wanted the mystery box!"  
  
"Already fighting, newly wed and all," the TV-host said. "Wonderful, that's how it should be. You better get used to it. Flowers and boxes as a consolation, but you got married on TV at least and everything."  
  
Two girls showed up, carrying flowers and small, empty boxes up to Zedd and Raycé.  
  
"Farewell you two," the TV-host continued, "and don't forget to hand over all of your items when you leave!"

 

 

Both drivers walked out of the room in poor moods. After the door had closed to the conference, Raycé and Zedd faced each other. Their eyes locked in awkward silence momentarily. Then Zedd started whistling along to a Cold play song for a while.  
  
"Do you know which one it is?" He asked Raycé when he'd finished.  
  
"Tom Jones," Raycé replied instantly.  
  
Zedd opened his mouth, but got interrupted violently when someone came up from behind and placed a hand over his forehead.  
  
"How are you, Zedd?" It was Dave Cloutrough talking. He sounded worried and he turned him around. "I brought you refreshments. Hey, Raycé, your team is looking for you."  
  
Raycé panicked and ran down the corridor, leaving a trail of flowers and boxes behind. He was one of the fastest indoor sprinters Zedd had seen in a while. He stared after his husband lovingly while he stood embraced in Dave's arms. _Would he give room when it mattered?_ He wondered. _Did he know what blue flag meant? What about avoiding causing a pile-up crash hundred-sixty meters after start in the speed of one hundred eighty seven kph?_  
  
He and Dave stayed in the corridor, quietly watching the rest of the driver's press conference. It was Clark's turn now. The TV-host made a statement that Clark was nervous.  
  
"Yes I am!" Clark replied sharply with a huff for added effect. "I think we should end this press conference and go out and have us a piece of grilled meat instead, and send all these things to the Red Cross and broadcast an old, blurry test pattern, so people can do something more meaningful than to stare at idiots on a TV-screen, who wins an incredibly amount of shit simply by being nincompoops!"

The whole room turned absolutely, stunningly and repeatedly silent. Zedd swallowed and looked worryingly at Dave. The Scottish showed small signs of ominous forebodings on his otherwise cold facade.  
  
"Do you think this is the end of Formula one?" Zedd asked. Suddenly they were staring at a test pattern, and looking around at the other TV-screens, Zedd saw the same pattern.  
  
As quickly as a cat, Dave reached down his left pants pocket and handed Zedd a big, silver key on a blue string. "Take this Zedd," he whispered sharply. "You must take it and hide it far away from here. Understood? No questions. Just do it and take Raycé with you."  
  
Zedd paled, but he nodded. "I'll try," he said, and stepped away from him slowly. "What if he tries to kiss me?"  
  
"I don't think he will, at least not here," Dave said comfortingly. "Now hurry!"  
  
Zedd didn't feel terribly comforted, but he nodded again and took his leave on running feet.

 


End file.
